


Motivation

by Seasonal



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, Gen, Maybe there's some comfort, This is not a happy thing, future timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seasonal/pseuds/Seasonal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the children of the darkest future lost before they ever had a second chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motivation

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I thought, "So the kids reference their parents being dead and whatnot, but how did they actually take it at the time?"
> 
> I'm so sorry.

__

_"You were already gone, so I had no one to teach me how dragonkin fight."_

She can't bring herself to call her foster mother "Mom", "Mother", or the like. The words are hot and crumbly ashes on her tongue; when she unfurls herself into something stronger, with glittering pink-red scales and wings not yet powerful enough to lift her for very long, she breathes out those words and watches the white-hot crystalline fire stream away from her.

 _Reach her,_ she wills the fire - the words, the force of her wish - every time she fights. With each Risen downed, she earnestly hopes. That she'll be accepted by the family who took her in, that the family who is _hers_ will come back, because surely she's strong enough by now. Surely her real parents will be back for her and she'll have someone to truly call "Mother".

No one comes, and when Nah chooses to come to them, there's only a chipped dragon stone. Portraits that she runs her fingers over again and again until she dons gloves, for fear of damaging the artwork. A small bag of dark red velvet, containing six manakete claws ("Mother doesn't need _all_ of them," Noire explains, and she doesn't ask whether Tharja agrees).

_There shouldn't be anything to miss,_ Nah thinks, but she does. She misses what she should have had. But she'd known. She'd known they were never coming for her. That Nowi was too far beyond her reach, gone before she'd even learned her parents' names.

She'd known all along.

 

__

_"I don't want to be the last taguel anymore!"_

Yarne should know how a taguel behaves. The customs and traditions. But the only one who can teach him is gone, and his father only knows that carrots are good and potatoes are bad. Yarne himself knows that the taguel shouldn't be a singular child, and struggles to form his warren. His father tries; the other mothers volunteer their aid, and their children try to follow suit. It's scary, at first, the first time Owain tugs at his tail, or Laurent tries to conduct a thorough exploration of his ears. Kjelle declares he's too scrawny to be any sort of threat and disappears into the kitchen to experiment with food fit for a taguel.

(The only reason Yarne survives is that Inigo and Cynthia shove him into a barrel and lie through their teeth about not having seen him, and the darkness is scary too.)

It takes him _weeks_ to approach Brady and Noire, through no fault of their own, but because Maribelle always forces him to correct his posture whenever she spots him, complete with a sharp rap to the shoulder blades if he slumps the slightest bit, and because Tharja makes sinisterly longing comments about rabbit feet.

(Brady and Noire serve as salvation, because the medical tent is always quiet, and so long as they aren't coughing germs onto him and singlehandedly threatening to eradicate his species with drippy yellow snot, they make for pleasant company and let him hide underneath either one of their cots when he's spooked.)

He knows he can't complain. Everyone (mostly) looks out for him, in their own different ways. But he's still _different_ , and he doesn't know what it means to be more comfortable in fur instead of clothes or how he hears a heartbeat and knows a lie before it's even told.

The first time he uses a beast stone and everything shifts and changes, nerves flaring, muscles aching and seizing, he wails for his mother.

She doesn't come, and Yarne has never felt so alone.

 

__

_"But when it really counted, I wasn't able to protect you."_

Cynthia's hair doesn't fall as smoothly as her mother's. It doesn't hold pins or ribbons or accessories very well, but Sumia has always treated the tangled mess with care, easing a brush through it with a patience Cynthia wishes she had. She gives her pegasus the same loving treatment, and Cynthia's convinced that out of all the steeds, her mother's pegasus is the prettiest. Pegasus and mother, both beautiful ladies, she thinks, and she's proud of them. She wants to be like that, beautiful and heroic. She twirls in her pretty dresses (and trips half the time, but so does her mother, so she's reassured that this is natural) and sneaks ribbons onto the pegasus' tail. She plays dolls with Severa and tugs at Olivia's wispy garments when she wanders by, begging her to make the dolls dance with each other.

Her mother is late today. Cynthia's brush has snagged yet again on a particularly curly clump of hair, but she remembers her mother's patience and struggles not to just yank through the tangles. Cordelia will help her, she knows, but true ladies should be able to make messy hair into lustrous pools of shiny goodness worthy of deflecting all evil, and her mother is a true lady, so she'll be one too.

Then the whinny of a horse (no, horses aren't as high-pitched) heralds a familiar arrival, and Cynthia promptly abandons her attempt, dashing out of the tent with the brush still tenaciously lodged in her hair.

There, front hooves just touching down to join the back legs, the pegasus. Cynthia reaches her side, hands expectantly raised for her usual hug before it hits her-- no one's reaching back. Her mother's mount is streaked with sweat and a gross purple grime, the sides quivering but the pegasus otherwise still with her eyes trained on Cynthia.

Her rider is nowhere to be seen.

"Mommy?" She instantly hates the sound of her own voice. No, no, heroes aren't supposed to sound so _tiny_. They're supposed to be full of decisions and knowing the right thing to do and courage. But it dawns on her, maybe her mother is hurt. Maybe she needs help. Her pegasus _wouldn't_ come back without her.

This decided, Cynthia lunges and scrambles for a good grip of mane or wing, or something to help her onto the pegasus' back. But her legs are too short, and everything is slippery, and the pegasus only lowers herself after the fifth attempt-- not to offer a ride, but to curl around Cynthia and lip at the brush in her hair. _I'll take care of you_ , she says, or so Cynthia hears, but doesn't want to understand.

"No-- no!!" She's bawling in earnest now, huge sobs that make her sound like a bullfrog, shoving at the pegasus' muzzle. "You-- you have to take me to Mommy! You _have_ to! Heroes always come back!!"

But her mother doesn't.

Later, Cynthia uses Cordelia's scissors to give herself a raggedy haircut that leaves her with stubby pigtails and Severa moaning in dismay.

Owain only shrugs when he sees it. "Now your hair won't get _as_ snagged by the clutches of nefarious bad guys," he says.

"Knew you'd get it," Cynthia says in reply, and drops her dolls into the bottom of her mother's favorite flower basket. Being a lady isn't the most important thing anymore.

 

__

_"I clung to the silly hope that maybe you had not died at all."_

He theorizes and hypothesizes, to anyone who has the time and patience to listen, to himself when no one does. It's often the latter, and he blames no one; everyone is fighting for another day, an opportunity to say "I'm home" or "Welcome back".

After the ninth day, Laurent no longer swivels half-wildly toward footsteps or the low, tired sighs that accompany the raising of the tent flap. His mother's sigh was crisp and disappointed, never _weary_. She rarely announced her presence, preferring to stay unnoticed in hopes of garnering additional information on whatever or whomever she'd chosen to study. _Welcome back_ , similarly, did not exist for her. "And what inestimable knowledge have you wrested to stake claim in your cranium today", perhaps.

Out of an absolutely witless need for familiarity, he asks this of the other children, receiving several blank stares, a question about what any of that has to do with stabbing birds, and Severa's shrill demand that he stop with the creepy questions.

Laurent returns to his hypotheses, regarding the ring he now keeps close (she'd never worn it to battle, claiming she didn't need it to conduct any sort of wayward element, and the force of a Bolganone at close range might very well melt it). There's a hat, too - his mother possessed several, always prepared - but it's yet to stop engulfing his head when he tries it on, only stopping once it's swallowed his ears.

She wouldn't just disappear. Not without a valid reason or without contacting her family. Without a body or anyone having seen her fall, there's no substantial evidence that his mother _isn't_ still alive and isn't now concocting experiments towards a breakthrough that will end this war immediately. When he proposes this theory, no one can look him in the eye, save for its biggest dissenter.

" _Gods_ , I can't _believe_ you," Severa says, swift and sharp, but one look from Lucina causes her to subside with a grumble.

The princess herself grants Laurent a thin smile, and he's not sure whether this is better or worse than Severa's spite. Sympathy isn't warranted, yet he sees it in her eyes. "Let's look forward to her return, then. Father could surely use her brilliance right now."

His mother doesn't return.

Her hat sits a little better on his head by the time Laurent decides to wear it daily. Enough time has passed; there may be a chance that she won't recognize how his features have matured, but the hat should be familiar enough. He carries several lists tucked into various pockets and folds of all of his research and notes on practical applications of the magic she'd perfected. He has so much to say to her.

First and foremost: _And what inestimable knowledge have you wrested to stake claim in your cranium over the past few years, Mother?_

He wonders what she'll tell him.

 

__

_"No matter how much I long to see her... no matter how much Minerva misses her... she can never return."_

His mother has always been hard to reach with her eyes focused on the sky, even with her arms securing Gerome against her chest. He doesn't understand why it demands her attention, not when that fall from her wyvern still leaves her with those days of terrible, lingering headaches. He's afraid of that sky. He's afraid of what else it might do to his mother. He's afraid that one day, the sky will drag her and Minerva into its impossibly large depths and never give them back. He's afraid that one day, the sky will tire of her and fling her to the ground, broken and beyond healing.

He's not sure which is worse.

"Now isn't the time to soar without a care," Cherche tells him, as he helps her go over Minerva's hide for loose scales. "I have this war to ground me. I have your father. And I have you, Gerome. Minerva understands."

Gerome stares at the wyvern until she hisses warningly at this possible demonstration of impudence and his mother lovingly chides her, and wonders if Cherche resents him for this.

He never asks her.

When she and his father don't return, when Minerva is the only one to land and stretches a lacerated wing over his head to cover him while she coils herself around him, he's glad he didn't ask. It was pointless now, when she'd already been taken away. His parents won't come back. Minerva may shriek at the sky, and he may wish so desperately that his chest hurts, but nothing will change. They're gone.

"But not you," he whispers into Minerva's side. " _Not you_ , Minerva."

The wyvern refuses to let anyone near them for the better half of a day, and by then, Gerome's eyes are dry and his mind is set. He needs to talk to Cynthia, the only person who still greets the sky with joy.

He'll face the sky, with Minerva. And he won't allow it, or this war, to take either of them.

 

__

_"I wanted to be like you— even best you one day. But then you... You were gone before I got the chance."_

Kjelle has always greeted her mother with demands. "Fight me" or "Train with me" or "Let me help with the armor", instead of hugs and worried questions. They're not needed, she decides. Each new bruise she gets from her sessions leaves her with a warm, lingering feeling of satisfaction, that her mother isn't holding back with her. She doesn't need to worry about how her mother's eyes narrow when she's tired, because she still laughs when she dumps Kjelle on her behind and tells her to "get up, Kjelle, you can't tell me that's _all_ you've got when you're _my_ kid!"

She still helps with her armor and counts the dents, but she isn't worried when they increase. Her mother can take down any foe, and she won't lose to anyone before Kjelle grows strong enough to defeat her. It's as unyielding a truth as the armor she diligently polishes before she allows her mother to slip it on again and head off into another battle she knows she'll win.

It's a single piece of metal that returns to her, and it fits in the palm of her hand.

_Why_ , Kjelle thinks, and it's the only thing she thinks when she's done challenging everyone in the camp who will face her, when it feels as though her fingers have fused to her spear and she almost headbutts Brady when he marches her into the closest tent to seal up every single scratch and chase away the bruises (but those are from her mother, no one else can leave that kind of impact, and she _snarls_ until he leaves those alone). _Why would this be the only thing to survive?_

They won't let her see the body. They tell her it's better this way, that Sully died honorably, that she took out an entire legion of Risen and fought to the very end.

Kjelle knows all of this and doesn't know what sort of comfort they're aiming to provide. She was never worried about her mother's strength. Her mother would have snorted, would have told her to keep up with the fighting, and so she does.

She doesn't cry until the last of the bruises melts into her skin, like none of it had ever mattered.

 

__

_"When it mattered, you used your magic to sacrifice yourself and... save me."_

(The familiar tingle of her mother's magic felt like the yanking of hair. _A curse, at this time?_ she'd wondered, but the dark magic - not her mother's - had veered away from her, engulfed Tharja instead.)

Noire knows she's screaming. Her throat will hurt tomorrow, and she'll have to drink one of those stomach-churning herbal brews, but she won't worry about tomorrow right now.

She won't worry at all, because after being so scared of being hurt, or of being responsible for the others getting hurt, after being scared of fighting, there's no longer any fear. There's only rage, at the beings that had downed her mother, at her mother, for daring to pick _now_ to show she cared.

For _not getting up._

She may be out of arrows, but that's fine, because Mother won't mind if she borrows her tome. She'll apologize later. And it's so _satisfying_ , to have the rage boil at her fingertips and unleash it on the monsters in clouds of darkness that consume them entirely. Her other hand keeps her talisman clutched tightly, because if she reverts back to her timid, quiet, terrified self, she can't make them all suffer for what they've done. And they _will_ suffer.

Noire doesn't know when it gets quiet again, not until her yells receive no grunts or shrieks and nothing moves to attack her. But the anger is still there, rising higher and higher, and it demands that she continue until it's gone, _everything's gone--_

There are hands at her waist, black armor - and it's Gerome frowning when she tries to twist around, but it's Severa who grabs the tome away, and it's Nah soaring overhead in tight, anxious circles as Owain clasps her shoulders and murmurs something she can't hear. It doesn't matter; Noire's struggles only increase when she sees Laurent kneeling by her mother, talking softly with Brady, who's shaking his head like her mother isn't the most powerful dark mage and that she couldn't shake off a simple magical blast.

"Get up," she snarls, and Gerome's hands tighten, the metal scraping at her hips as she thrashes. "You insolent creature who spawned me, how _dare_ you presume to lie there like discarded rags!! Have you no shame?! ARISE IMMEDIATELY OR I SHALL--"

" _Noire_ ," Kjelle says sharply, and Noire stops, but only because Inigo is very gently stroking her glove and just as carefully trying to pull the talisman free. The fear floods in, and it takes Yarne and Cynthia joining in to keep her from moving. No, without the talisman, she can't avenge her mother, she can't fight until nothing hurts, she can't-- 

And then it's gone, handed off to Lucina, and there's an empty ache that feels much worse than the tingling yank of her mother's curses. It hurts, and it expands with every breath she takes, until she holds her breath in the hopes that it'll stop.

It doesn't, and Owain pounds her on the back until she coughs, trembles, and rasps out a wail that transitions into a shaky sob. She can't talk anymore. She can't even whisper.

So she prays.

_Please don't leave me, please don't let me be alone. Please. Don't let me be left behind._

_I'm scared._

The others hold her as she sags. Laurent will leave her mother's ring in her hand when she sleeps again, and she will think about how she hates herself a little.

But now, Noire lets herself be held, and loses herself in that.

 

__

_"I guess I didn't realize that would be my last chance to talk with you."_

Stupid. It's all so _stupid_ , and she _feels_ stupid, with how hot her face is when she screams at her mother, because another wound acquired because of Chrom, which was supposed to happen, a knight protecting the Exalt, but she knows it's not because of that.

It's because it's _Chrom_ , and it's watching her father gently bandage her mother's arm, concerned and non-accusatory, although he _should_ be. Cordelia has a husband and a daughter, and still, she'll always, _always_ think of another man first.

The unfairness of it burns at her throat and her eyes, when Cordelia leads her pegasus toward the front lines. It really is something stupid, a tired promise her mother had made to help her polish her sword, but Chrom had requested her to scout ahead, and once again, Chrom came first.

If she didn't like Lucina so much, Severa would hate her father.

It's stupid.

But she says it anyway, because (not for the first time), she wants to hurt her mother like her mother has hurt her. She wants to make her flinch and come to her senses, to realize that she has a daughter who needs her.

Mommy, she wants to say, Mommy, don't leave me.

But that stays locked away, and instead, she hisses something much more vehement.

"Who matters more to you, me or Chrom! Why don't you MARRY him?"

The satisfaction only lasts an instant, the way Cordelia's spine snaps straight, until she turns to look at her daughter.

It's almost reminiscent of Noire at her saddest, downtrodden and kicked and _hurt_ , except her mother can never show that kind of face to anyone, let alone the Shepherds and her beloved Chrom. Her smile still makes Severa's throat hurt.

"Oh, darling... you will always be my greatest treasure."

And then she and her pegasus are gone, and Severa feels sick.

She _is_ sick behind the stables, when the rest of them return, but not Cordelia and her steed. It pisses her off, the way she's stuck pacing the width of the pegasus' stall after she'd snapped at her father to lay off with the concern, after she'd come close to biting through her tongue to keep herself from screaming at Chrom when she knew it wasn't really his fault.

It's hers, and she doesn't even have the crappy consolation of her mother's pegasus, because _of course_ the damned horse doesn't give two bits about Cordelia's daughter, not like Sumia's had been with Cynthia. Her rider didn't care, so why would she?

Her stomach churns, the bile still raging when she swallows, but Severa forces it back and curls into the back of the stall, hopefully where no one can see her once night falls. It's ridiculously immaculate in there, but her mother had always fussed with everything, until it reached her lofty standards of perfection. Severa not included.

It's fine. All of it had been stupid, and anger is so much better than grief.

Except then Cynthia shows up, with _her_ pegasus in tow, and Noire timidly trailing behind, and no matter how much she protests or screams at them, they stay. The pegasus keeps trying to nibble on her hair, and Severa snaps more than once that Cynthia is far too bony and they're much too old for childish snuggling, but Noire reaches for her hand and murmurs, "Isn't it all right, this once?" and she can't yell at _her_ because then she'll start crying, and with her luck, crying's probably contagious tonight.

It is.

But it starts with Severa, who sobs when the pegasus blows hot air in her face, because she'd just - always - only wanted her mother. Noire sniffles through her attempts at reassurance, and Cynthia bawls, because she's Cynthia, and in the end, they fall asleep in that childish snuggle pile.

In her dreams, her mother is holding her.

 

__

_"When you turn your back on me now, I remember. ... And it saddens me."_

He attaches himself easily. Gerome says as much, in different terms ( _irritatingly clingy_ may or may not have been included), and Inigo's laugh is light and lilting and completely at odds with the blood on his hands.

(She'd been fourteen, the one village girl who met his eyes when he'd flirted with her, took the flower he presented and tucked it into her braid with a tremulous smile.

The flower was gone, shredded and lost to the smoky atmosphere. So too, was her smile, the only upward curve encompassing her stomach and chest and still blossoming blood as the Risen rampaged on.)

Inigo _does_ cling, and he doesn't need Gerome to tell him that. He'd grasped large handfuls of his mother's dancing outfit, insisting on being towed along so that she was always close enough to hide behind. He'd gripped her hand and felt the chill of loss when she collapsed at his feet, his father no longer there to support her. He'd been older then, bolder in his advances towards the fairer sex, and still so greedy for that sense of touch, the one support he himself craved. The sting of Severa's fist as it grazes his chin when he smiles at the wrong time, Cynthia's painfully tight hugs, the light cadence of Lucina's fingers across his shoulder to call his attention. His mother's comforting presence in the sweep of her palm over his hair, and the hopefully eager tugs she'd give his wrists as she asked him to dance with her.

He'd always demurred; he was never ready, he was never worthy enough, he wanted to frame that fluttering silhouette in his mind as she spun and twirled.

She's framed before him now, but only for a breath - his, not hers - those graceful arms stretched out wide to catch not a partner, but a blade. Then she's fluttering once more, but it's downwards, the end of a dance.

Inigo can't applaud; he screams instead.

The sound is raw and scared and completely unheard in the midst of battle, but perhaps the others see his mother fall; Brady is inexplicably _there_ , Maribelle not far from behind, or so he _thinks_ he hears his friend say. Minerva thuds heavily in front of him, sweeping a good three or four Risen into the air with a single lash of her tail while Gerome is yelling at him to hold on.

There's nothing else to hold, except for his sword (but he's dropped it) and his mother (and he does, he clings like nothing before, his fingernails digging into her back for as blunt as they are). He breathes for her. He tried to hold her there, with him, to keep her from going too far.

But the grim countenances on both healers tells him what he'd already known. That Olivia had left him the instant she'd let him face her back.

And that's it, Inigo thinks, and he smiles and smiles and _smiles_ until he can press his face into his mother's ponytail and feel that smile fragment, bit by agonizing bit.

Truly, there's nothing for him to hold now.

 

__

_"I just want a brighter future. I can deal with any hardship now in exchange."_

Lucina knows she's fortunate, to still have a father, when those around her have lost entire families. She does her utmost not to take it for granted, to learn as much as she can, and to train herself to the point where she can be another blade, honed for the sake of her father and her kingdom.

But it's hard to be worried when she looks up at her father, sweat making her forehead sticky when she rubs at it, and he's still so majestic and _strong._ This, she thinks, is a true leader, and underneath his guidance, they'll win this war and the halidom will know true peace. She _will_ fight beside him until-- no, beyond the day of their victory. A man who has such powerful and loyal allies will not fall so easily, and with every Shepherd they lose, the more determined Lucina becomes to grow stronger, so they will lose no one else. So she too can be considered one of those pillars of support keeping her father safe. His wound from that assassin still pains him, but still he continues to fight; it's what she tells herself when her nails break from the force of her swings and her palms are bloody when she finally stops training for the day and jogs off to tend to her equipment.

The day will come when there is nothing to do but smile. This thought is her foundation.

And it crumbles when Falchion is placed into her hands, the weight reopening the cuts on her palms.

Chrom is gone, she is told. Struck down. A betrayal.

_Gods, no_ is a thin whimper that she forces back. She straightens. Falchion is held aloft.

"I swear to all of you before me, to all of Ylisse-- we will bring about an end to this nightmare once and for all!!"

It's what her father would say.

It's also why Lucina doesn't permit herself any sort of weakness until everyone is secluded in their tents and Lissa has sent Owain to help with the rations, so that her niece can kneel in front of her and cry silently into her lap.

The time for smiling will not be anytime soon.

 

__

_"You were holding it when you... Well, it's my greatest treasure."_

"Ya wouldn't even let me fend for myself in the end."

Brady has learned how to realize a situation by how Owain says his name.

"BRADY!" in tones of grandeur means Owain has an idea that's probably going to lead to someone getting pissed off, and Brady is going to be dragged into his friend's heroic histrionics without any say in the matter.

"Bra _dy_!" means that Owain is once again exasperated with how not-heroic Brady is being while he's organizing all of his healing supplies, and that this is the fifth time Brady's ignored him or told him to shut up and be useful or go away, so by now, he's whining like a bored puppy.

"Brady," tired and still so _bright_ , means another fight is over, and all of their fighters are safe-- alive, at least, and when Owain's recovered his stamina, he'll be getting regaled with newly-formulated legends about their mothers that are only partly true (because as scary as his ma is, she's not at a decent height to go about crushing Risen underneath her boot with every mighty step).

By now, Brady's always half-listening, preparing himself for whatever Owain's about to throw his way. Not just Owain, but any of them. Noire never calls for anyone anymore, but he knows when she needs him, because Yarne does it for her, and he's anything but quiet. Nah's "Brady!" is more like a beacon, the way she dips and swerves and sweeps her tail in the direction that he needs to go. As a dragon, she's led him to more injured soldiers than anyone else. Cynthia yells everything _but_ his name, when she's really the one who needs the most support.

He listens.

But he curses now, when Owain's yell comes, and it plunges into his chest with the force of a General-wielded hammer. Desperation, panic, things he's already feeling, but when _Owain's_ call is drenched with it, it makes him want to scream.

And it comes again. Again, and again. "Brady!! _Brady!!_ "

Through a hazy blur, he catches sight of Owain, struggling his way and clearing a misshapen path through the Risen still hissing and lunging at him. He's clutching-- ah. Had Owain's mother always looked that small? Or had her legs being crushed done that? Ma would be shrieking up a storm, upset beyond belief, but when he looks down at her, she's still so unnaturally _quiet._ Her wounds have closed, but no matter how many Mends he casts, the color doesn't return to her face, for all that she had just energetically took an axe to that sad excuse of a Swordmaster only minutes ago. He hasn't seen her look so peaceful in _years._

Brady hates it.

"I'm--" He hates the sound of his own voice, too, the way he can't even force a bellow out. His ma will be okay. She's just resting.

Or so he'll tell himself until he's _not_ in the middle of carnage and chaos, because if that's really Lissa Owain's clutching so close, he may very well be the only healer who can still do his job right now.

When Owain reaches him, Brady bites back the curse this time. Even with his hand bringing the staff over Lissa's body, he knows with one look. The blood she's lost, the bones still jutting grotesquely from her thin legs, the way Owain keeps blinking back devastation whenever she gasps.

Brady's forced to listen to what his friend has to say now, try as he might to tune it out with Ma lying so still by his thighs.

"Mother, you wouldn't lose to any great evil, right? You, with the most noble lineage and the purest of hearts, the most fiery courage that scorches the earth itself and engulfs your enemies in flame--" It's typical Owain spiel, but when Lissa cracks her eyes open a mere sliver, like it's some giant effort, he breaks with a shudder. 

"Mother," pleading. "Mother, _no_ , you can't leave me, I need you, I promised Father, I--!"

Lissa's hand - the one still holding her staff - moves. One finger unfurls. She sighs, almost apologetically.

She doesn't move again, not even when Owain gently pries the staff from her grip, and the Risen din in the background is lessening, enough so that Brady can hear his name.

"Brady," Owain whispers. Non-accusing. But broken. He has his mother's blood stained into his skin.

"Owain," Brady says back, at the same volume level, because he'll choke otherwise, and what the hell are you _supposed_ to say when it finally hits you that your mother is dead and your friend's mother is dead and you couldn't do a damned thing to save either of them when saving was the only thing you _could_ do?

His only consolation is that neither of them can say much through the sobs that follow.

_"... It's hard to believe that's how the world will turn out."_

Morgan remembers neither fire nor death. Morgan remembers neither bonds nor the breaking of them.

Morgan only remembers having someone to reach out for, and yet somehow, nothing can be grasped.


End file.
